


The First Winter

by TheHuxler



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Blizzards & Snowstorms, Cuddling & Snuggling, Established Relationship, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Hypothermia, Illnesses, M/M, Snow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-06
Updated: 2021-01-11
Packaged: 2021-03-16 20:41:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28588176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheHuxler/pseuds/TheHuxler
Summary: Faramir stays out too long in a snowstorm. Beregond, Imrahil, and Aragorn all help in their own way.
Relationships: Aragorn | Estel/Faramir (Son of Denethor II), Beregond (Guard of the Citadel) & Faramir (Son of Denethor II), Faramir (Son of Denethor II) & Imrahil
Comments: 8
Kudos: 36





	1. Beregond

**Author's Note:**

> This is set in the first winter after the war. Faramir and Aragorn are in an established relationship. I took liberties with characters from canon and the timeline for reconstruction as an excuse for some light Faramir angst. Why does Imrahil have silver hair? Because he's a #daddy. Why is Beregond sassy? Because I haven't read the books in at least ten years and took my best shot ;~; Please excuse how rough this draft is :)

Faramir shivered as he walked through the fifth circle, pulling his cloak tighter around himself. He had been out for hours, supervising the remaining repairs, and the gentle drift of the first snowflakes of the year had been a welcome sight—at least at first. When he had left the citadel in the early morning hours, the sky a damp pink to the east, the snowflakes fell in large, lazy clumps, dappling the sky blue-grey and layering over the horizon in gauzy strands. He had stood on the battlement for a long while, watching to the east and Mordor, where the skies would darken no longer.

In the hours he had been out since, touring the lower circles and inspecting the wall, the weather had changed. The snow no longer drifted peacefully but caught hard and steely on the wind, pelleting down like small pebbles, stinging and burning with cold. It was no large matter to Faramir—he had endured many a harsh winter in Ithilien, with less shelter than could be afforded by city walls and narrow streets. Yet still, when the skies opened such as they had in Ithilien, one might take refuge in Henneth Annûn. Patrols would be short, and the men would change out regularly to warm themselves. The caves were kept stocked always with dry wood, and when the heavy snowfall and darkness might mask smoke, they could huddle around the fire, trading warmed ale when they had it and hot water when they did not.

Faramir did not wear the heavy wool they had worn in Hennuth Annûn. He wore finer things, not quite so rich as Boromir or his father had worn, but still fit for his station. The rich black velvet tunic may have kept one warm inside the halls of the citadel, but it did little against the cut of the wind and the gathering snow, which sunk heavily into the thick plush and stuck cold against his chest. His cloak was little better—it had not been so cold this morning, and there had been little breeze, so he had picked a lighter one which would not be so suffocating on the long walk. It too was dark velvet, and soon grew heavy with moisture, snow gathering and crinkling on its mantel as its end drug in the icy slush. 

He had planned—shivering and wringing numb fingers as he looked over a new section of stairs—to return to the citadel at midday to change and lunch, yet time had the habit of getting away from Faramir where work was concerned. Soon he was walking along the outer wall as the skies darkened. The pain in his feet had long since lessened then to dull numbness, as he stumbled every so many steps over snow that had hardened to rocks. The foreman overseeing construction had tried to persuade him to warm in a nearby inn hours earlier, yet Faramir could not allow himself a break due simply to his own lack of foresight. When he had left the main gate to oversee the wall, the workers had still been hammering away and carting stones through the slush. They had worn thick wool and did not shiver and shake as the wind snaked through the city. 

What would be said of Gondor, of the steward, if those rulers allowed themselves rest yet demanded their workers continue on? What would Denethor say, if he could see his youngest son struggling through the streets, shaking and shivering while other men continued vigorously? Faramir felt his stomach flip painfully, as he recalled the look of shame so often leveled at him. What was wrong with him? Was he such a man as to weigh his own comfort against that of his duty? Had he grown so soft now as his father feared he would have been as steward? He had always been slighter, smaller than Boromir, and he felt now that if Boromir were in his place, he would fair the blizzard the way a mountain weathers a storm. 

Faramir stumbled again over a lump of fallen snow as he ascended the stairs into the seventh circle, catching his shoulder hard against the wall—the one that had been pierced by the dart months earlier and would ache often with overuse. It bore the brunt of his fall, and pain shot tingling down to his finger, though it helped to dispel the dark thoughts which so often hung over him. Aragorn would be unhappy to find him thinking such thoughts and so often. Though Aragorn never did fault him for his grief, he would frown and worry over Faramir whenever those thoughts slipped out. What had once been common and accepted in the house of Denethor was no longer, and he found himself biting his tongue lest Aragorn’s face drew downward once again in worry. Faramir hated when it did that—when the lines between his brows darkened with stress and grief, and so Faramir made great efforts to be better. 

He shook the snow that had gathered in his hair and continued his trudge. The sky had darkened fully now, and his shivered had shifted to occasional full-body tremors. His fingers, which before had been curled deep in his cloak now hung limply at his sides, and he feared he could not properly bend them. The wind whistled against the gaps in the wall beside him, high and thready, and it sounded so much like Boromir had sounded when they were children, learning how to whistle. They had been buck-toothed then and had laid for hours in the sun until their skin redded, wiggling their lips forward and back in search of some better pitch. Denethor had been so angry with them that night at dinner when he had spied the red blister of their skin, and Faramir had woken the next day crying as his skin cracked. Denethor would not let them go to the healing houses at first—no better impression could be left, he had said, then the impressions caused by their own foolishness. But he had relented the next day at breakfast when both of them had emerged teary-eyed from their rooms. 

Faramir tried to smile at the memory of it, the two of them slathered in white paste as Loreth lectured and fussed over them, yet his face was numb and wind-burned and he could not laugh for coughing. He caught himself again against the wall as his body shook, heaving with coughs, his lungs burning and stinging as he tried to draw in air. Spots danced in his vision and he thought for a moment he might faint before the fit subsided and left him gasping against the wall. 

“Sir, are you alright?” he heard a voice behind him, a gloved hand came to rest on his shoulder. When he turned, blurry eyes, he saw Beregond before him, wrapped in a thick cloak. His eyes pinched in worry morphed then into surprise as he took in Faramir, hair wet and icy, clothing sodden. 

“My lord!” He exclaimed, “I have been looking for you for ages. What in Eru’s name are you doing out in this weather?” Then his face paled and his eyes narrowed. “Tell me you have not been out here all day”. 

Faramir straightened and tried to look presentable, though from Beregond’s darkening face it was a sorry attempt, ruined wholly by Faramir coughing weakly into his fist. 

“There was work to see to-” he began hesitantly, but Beregond cut him off. 

“Work? There is no one working still at this hour, and anyone sane has since turned in because of this weather. Let me take you back to the citadel—you do not look well,” but when Beregond moved to guide Faramir up the steps, Faramir shook him off, stumbling once in the ice before Beregond grabbed him once more. 

“I am fine, really” Faramir tried, but Beregond shook his head. 

“You are soaked through, and you are shaking!” He exclaimed, loosing his cloak and throwing it around Faramir’s shoulders. The effect was immediate—the wind no longer cut through to his skin, and the residual warmth from Beregond’s body lessened somewhat the aching chill. But Faramir could not keep the cloak and leave Beregond standing in the downpour, hands tucked into his armpits. 

“No, I couldn’t possibly—” he began, weakly tugging the cloak from his shoulders, but Beregond grabbed his hands before he could pull it free. 

“Either you wear that cloak or we leave it here. Either way, I will not put it back on.” Beregond said, voice hard, and Faramir could think of no further argument. “If you don’t want me to freeze to death, I suggest you start on towards the citadel,” Beregond said. And so they began their walk up the final circle, careful of the ice. Beregond would not release Faramir’s arm for his shaking, uneven steps, no matter how Faramir insisted he was fine. 

When they came near the doors Faramir slowed, and Beregond looked back at him, the both of them shivering. 

“This is perhaps something we should not tell Aragorn,” Faramir said coughing again, and Beregond narrowed his eyes and opened his mouth to protest before he too coughed. 

“...Perhaps not,” Beregond said sheepishly. 

They entered the hall, dripping, and went their separate ways, both careful to make sure they would not run into Aragorn, or anyone who would tell Aragorn of what state they had returned in. Beregond would still not take back his cloak, and so Faramir carried it to his rooms, to have the maids clean it before he returned it. He would have to do something nice for Beregond, for as much as the man did for him.

It was cold in his rooms when he opened the door, for a fire had not burned all day, and he did not like the maids to busy themselves with his chambers when he knew not when he would return. It mattered not, for his skin was so numbed and chilled that the room felt warm regardless, sheltered as it was from the elements.

He felt fatigue creeping upon him as he struggled to pull the wet cloak from where it stuck about his shoulders, so he decided he would change to something dry and start a fire before retiring, forgoing any meal. But as he sat in the chair before the fire, wet and shivering, to pull his swollen feet from his boots, another coughing fit besieged him, much longer and harsher than the first. It was wet and long, and he could feel it scratching in his throat and lungs before finally he collapsed back against the upholstery, gasping. It was then that fatigue came in swiftly, more so than it had before, and when he closed his eyes to rest for a moment, he fell into a fitful sleep.


	2. Imrahil

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is done! It is five in the morning....but it is done!

Faramir woke disoriented, damp and aching, with sunlight strewn over his face, and a pounding coming from the door. 

“Faramir?” a voice called, muffled from the other side. He was far too groggy to recognize who it was as he stumbled to his feet, stiff and aching in the chilled darkness. His hands and feet were still numbed, his tunic still plastered to his skin with damp. Had he fallen asleep in his chair last night? His clothing felt rough and cold, and his body trembled as he lurched to the door, stumbling over a mass of dark fabric strewn there from the night before. 

That was not his cloak, he thought. It looked like Beregond’s, but why was it in his rooms? It was then that Faramir remembered, his heart jumping in his throat and causing him to cough once more as the knocking grew louder and more insistent. He stumbled the rest of the way and wrenched the door open, leaning heavily against the frame.

He could not speak for his coughing, his eyes watering. He heard a deep voice exclaim before someone grabbed his arm and led him to the edge of the bed, and tensed as a warm hand began rubbing circles on his back, and he could not make out their low murmur.

Faramir’s eyes cleared as his breath came back to him slowly, and through tears he saw the silver hair of his uncle. He felt calmer then, his embarrassment lessening, as he slackened under the hand.

“My god Faramir, you look terrible. What happened?” Imrahil asked, moving to kneel before him, hand on his forehead. “You are burning up,” he said, his hands dropping down to his tunic, “and your clothes are wet. You are freezing!” 

Imrahil looked unhappy, his brow pinched and eyes turned down, the way he had looked when Faramir had still been in the healing houses and in the months after, when Faramir so often eschewed sleep in favor of work or in deference to troubled dreams. They had spent many early mornings together when the sun had not yet crested the horizon, talking and playing at strategy games. Imrahil never truly had grown out of a sailor’s habit—waking before dawn, and so the two often found each other in the hallways before their duties would commence—one just starting his day, the other always at the tail end of it.

Imrahil had enough of worrying for a lifetime, Faramir thought as he shook Imrahil’s hand away and tried to stand. The room tilted at once and Imrahil shot to his feet to steady him, yet Faramir allowed himself to sit back heavily on the bed, trembling minutely from the exercise, squeezing his hands into fists to hide their shaking.

“I am alright,” Faramir croaked, “I fear I stayed out too late last night.”

“You mean to say you were outside last night? During that weather?” Imrahil asked in deepening horror, “are these the same clothes?!” 

And Faramir laughed a bit then at the slacked jawed face of his uncle (who looked at him like he was insane), who was always so besides himself at Faramir and Boromir’s antics when they were younger. This time he did not cough, and was thankful. 

“I am sorry uncle,” Faramir said and squeezed Imrahil’s hand, his gloves creaking slightly. “I am afraid I overdid it last night and was overcome by fatigue before I could see myself properly to bed.” 

Imrahil looked very sad, and put one hand on Faramir’s still cold cheek. It was not the first time Faramir put work before his own health—it was an unfortunate habit that Imrahil had seen Denethor enforce over the years, and now Imrahil could only watch as the unfortunate fruits were sewn. He wished more than anything to have that carefree boy back, who would run along the seashores in Dol Amroth collecting and categorizing shells. The boy who would disappear with a book for hours, who would worry the entire palace as they searched for him, only to find him tucked in some nook, unaware of the passage of time. He wished that boy back, if only to bear a little bit more joy towards one who was so often robbed of it. He could see now, how hard Faramir worked, how heavy the position of steward weighed on him. 

“You need to take care of yourself, Faramir,” Imrahil said. “There are so many who care for you, and I would not see you wilt away when the darkness has only just ended.”

“I know uncle,” Faramir said, softly, and pulled his uncle into a hug. It was an awkward one—Faramir had to lean down, and Imrahil had to half-straighten from his position on the floor, but it was warm, and caring, and felt of everything Faramir had lost in the past year—and gained.

A long moment passed, and Faramir felt Imrahil’s chest shake with laughter. 

“What is it?” Faramir asked. 

“Aragorn will not be happy,” Imrahil smiled. Faramir flopped back onto the bed and groaned.

Imrahil laughed and rose from the floor, moving to the fireplace to arrange the logs for a fire. The room was chilled, and he could all but see his breath in the dim morning air. 

“You should change to something warm,” he said, turning back towards the bed, “if you can manage it.”

Faramir sat up after a moment, gazing at Imrahil through the darkness as he moved about at the fireplace. 

“Uncle…..” he said, and Imrahil sighed out his nose, knowing what would come. 

“I am forgetting something, am I not?” Faramir asked, brow tightening and rising unsteadily from the bed. The logs caught then, though they were very old, and a warm glow grew over the room, lightening the pale of their faces. Imrahil, however, did not turn around, and busied himself still with the stack of forgotten kindling. 

“I would not worry yourself over it now,” he said at last as Faramir came to kneel beside him, trembling more now as warmth began to creep into the far reaches of his limbs. “You must rest. There is no need of you until you are well.”

It was then that it dawned on Faramir, what morning it was, and he remembered the forgotten reports from the previous night, the council meeting they were no doubt late for—the report on the progress of the repairs that Aragorn needed.

He shot to his feet even as Imrahil grabbed his pale wrist to pull him back down. 

“You will not do what you are planning to do,” Imrahil said stern. 

“But the reports—Aragorn will need them, and it really is just a touch of the cold, I will survive one meeting with the council!” 

“You surviving or not surviving is not in question here,” a voice sounded from the doorway, and Faramir stiffened, turning immediately around and dropping into a bow. Aragorn stood before him, glowering, in his council robes, and he looked ready to begin a lecture, to order Faramir back into bed. Yet before he could begin, Faramir felt the last vestiges of warmth flee his face, a cool layer of perspiration springing there. He heard Imrahil shout, and then he pitched forward.


	3. Aragorn

Aragorn was not surprised when Faramir bowed—it had taken much urging and reassurance to even get the man to address him by name when in private. Faramir slipped up often enough still that his bowing was not altogether alarming, though Aragorn’s feelings on the matter oscillated between gloom that the man was not yet comfortable enough with him to drop the pretense entirely, and humor at the endearing nature of it—at the slight blush that would so often paint Faramir’s cheeks when he would lift his head or meet Aragorn’s eyes after. 

Aragorn was very alarmed, however, when Faramir grew suddenly paler and pitched forward. Imrahil shouted as Aragorn dashed forward to grab Faramir about the torso, the two of them stumbling back across the floor and sprawling there, Aragorn positioning his body below so that Faramir’s head might be spared a dash against the wooden slats. Faramir’s head rested against the padded shoulder of Aragorn’s tunic, and Aragorn could not rise but for the dead weight of the body atop him. He wrenched a hand free from between them and laid it against Faramir’s neck, sighing in relief at the steady (if not rapid) beat there. 

Imrahil had stood still for a long moment, blinking down at them before moving to roll Faramir gently from the king’s chest, flipping him to recline Faramir against his own. He looked politely away as Aragorn righted himself, though his pinched face betrayed that he was holding back laughter, even if it was layered over in worry. Though Aragorn did not know Imrahil well, the two of them had formed a kind of fellowship in the past months in their shared care for Faramir—Imrahil had helped Faramir as he gradually took up the late stewards duties upon his release from the healing houses, but Imrahil had also offered Aragorn advice when it came to matters of state and matters of Faramir. They had fought together at the Battle of the Morannon, but more so it had been Imrahil who summoned Aragorn to the healing houses when Faramir lay dying. 

Aragorn leaned forward, laying his hand over Faramir brow. He felt the heat and damp there, yet when he moved his hands down to grasp Faramir’s hands, he could feel the chill that held him even through the supple leather. 

“He told me he was out last night in the storm, and fell asleep here without changing or lighting the fire. I fear if not for my knock, he would still be sleeping here, undiscovered,” Imrahil said, eyes soft and turned down towards Faramir’s face. “I told him not to worry about the council meeting, but you know how he is,” Imrahil finished and Aragorn nodded.

“You did the right thing,” Aragorn said, “things are not so desperate as they once were that meetings cannot be rescheduled.” He sighed. It was so like Faramir to forgo any care for himself until it was too late. It did not take a healer to see that he was sick, and even now Aragorn could hear the slight wheeze of congestion with each breath taken.

“It is very like him,” Aragorn said at length. “I had hoped this was behind us, but to know he slept here all night in the cold…” He tucked one hand beneath Faramir’s neck and lifted him gently to his own chest. Imrahil stood to help him to his feet, and Aragorn laid Faramir upon the bed. His head lolled limply to the side when it fell back against the pillow, damp, dark hair falling forward into his face. Aragorn reached out and brushed it away. 

“My lord?” Imrahil asked after a moment. Aragorn sighed once more, rubbing at his brow. 

“Do you think you might head the meeting? I would not leave this to the healers, though I do not doubt their abilities,” Aragorn said.

“I will make the appropriate excuses and give you a report by this evening,” Imrahil bowed and made to leave the room though stopped there, seemingly caught at the entrance, eyes drifting back to the pale form on the bed. 

“He will be alright,” Aragorn said. “He has gone through worse before.” 

Aragorn watched the crinkles deepening at the edges of Imrahil’s eyes for a moment, before the prince bowed once more and swept from the room. 

——

Faramir woke slowly to a low burning pain in his limbs and stifling heat. He tried to move his arms but found them pinned beneath a thick weight, and it was then that he felt cool liquid trickling down his forehead. 

“You’re awake,” Aragorn said as he opened his eyes. Faramir blinked up at him as more liquid ran down his temple, cresting along the surface of his cheekbone. He extracted a hand with some difficulty from the pile of blankets which rested over him, reaching upward to dab there, but Aragorn encircled his wrist and reached out with his own hand, removing the cloth that sat upon Faramir’s brow. 

“There now, it is alright. I am only trying to lower your fever,” Aragorn said, and Faramir continued to blink at him, slowly lowering his hand back down to the bed. He opened his mouth to talk but was instead beset by a fit of coughing, his throat scratching painfully with each hack, his chest heaving. He felt as if he could not draw air quickly enough, his eyes darkening at the edges with spots of black, and he clawed at the blankets that lay across his chest, blindly. 

He could not breathe, he could not—

It was then that he felt the weight removed, arms snaked around him, and the world tilted forward. His head sat tucked beneath Aragorn’s own as his body shook, and he felt then a gentle hand on his back, another wrapped loosely around his wrist, laying his palm against the surface of Aragorn’s face, the stubble there rubbing against old callouses.

“Deep breathes, it’s alright. Match me,” Aragorn muttered, taking slow deep breaths, and Faramir struggled through gasps to match them, wheezing and heart hammering. It took many long moments before his breaths too were deep and calm, and his body ached and shook with exertion. He sat for a long while against Aragorn’s chest, matching his inhales and exhales, though his breathing had slowed and he knew he should move away. Though his relationship with Aragorn had deepened over the past months, he felt often a pang of shaming inadequacy when they were together, as though one was lingering where they shouldn’t—but then Aragorn would look at him in a certain way, would hold his hand absently under a desk, would pick him up and spin him and laugh while Faramir protested, and all the other feelings would be chased away to return in some lonelier hour.

He could not help but feel now that shame—to be here sick of his own doing, to be tended to by his king, when it should be the other way around. The ever-present worry that Aragorn would see him for what he truly was and send him away. 

“I’m sorry,” Faramir whispered after a moment, throat scratchy and threatening coughs once more, though Aragorn only shushed him and ran fingers through his hair. It was then that Faramir’s trembling turned slowly to shivers, and Aragorn shifted him slowly back to the bed. Though Faramir could feel his face heating, he was not sure he could have moved back easily on his own for his shaking. He noticed then, as Aragorn laid the blankets over him, that his clothing had been changed, and he felt his face heat once more. 

“You do not have to tend me,” Faramir began, but Aragorn shook his head.

“Why would I want to be anywhere else?” He asked, leaning once more over him to dab at his brow. 

“It was my own folly,” Faramir said, looking away. The window was frosted over still with snow, and he could hear outside the wind whistling against the stones. Was there anyone out there still, struggling against the cold, or had they all turned in, sheltered in warm homes and beds? He felt a warm finger hook beneath his chin and allowed his face to be turned back to the warmth of the fire-lit room. When Aragorn spoke his voice was soft and hushed yet held a grave seriousness that took hold of Faramir’s attention and would not let go. 

“You were but a loyal subject,” he said. “I wish only that you did not feel the need to work yourself so. That you trusted me enough to tell me if you needed a break, or were feeling unwell.”

“It’s not that,” Faramir said, though his heart stuttered, eyes drifting back to the storm outside

“Then what is it?’

There was quiet for a long time. The logs crackled and spat in the fireplace, and he could hear a servant hurrying down the hall outside. The room seemed colder then, like the chill had never left his body and instead settled inseparable in his bones. 

“I only worry…” Faramir choked, eyes burning and throat tightening, and he had to pause to take a long drink from the glass Aragorn held out to him. He did not make eye contact as he spoke, and his words were quiet enough to be all but swallowed by the night time hush.

“I only worry that one day I will not be enough,” Faramir said. “That my inadequacy will make itself plain to you, and you will no longer want me.”

“Faramir…” Aragorn said, and his voice was somehow changed, a smooth heaviness like the slide of velvet over skin, and when Faramir looked to him he saw his eyes looked somehow wet then too, though they brimmed with no water—they softened instead, caught up everything inside them and held it there.

“You are everything,” Aragorn said, and he leaned over Faramir and kissed him.

——

The next night found Faramir curled on Aragorn's settee before a crackling fire, wrapped in clothing that was too large for him but blessedly dry and warm. Clothing that smelled like pine and parchment. Like Aragorn. 

In his hands he clutched a mug of steaming tea, his head pillowed on Aragorn's lap. He could feel each rumble of the larger man's chest as Aragorn read, could feel the fingers which massaged his scalp and tugged the blankets higher when he shifted. He sank further into the blankets, sighing. Aragorn leaned down to kiss him, once, and when he made to pull back Faramir grabbed Aragorn's hair and tugged him back down. His mouth was warm, their beards scratching against each other, and when Faramir opened his mouth he felt hot tea slosh over his hand. He yelped, Aragorn jumped, and they laughed for a long while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading! It's been a lot of fun writing characters that are so often in my head :)
> 
> P.S. I imagine Faramir sitting up in horror, screaming "Beregond!" as he remembers that the other man is also probably sick, and demanding Aragorn go check on him.


End file.
